


The Fourteenth Century

by BardofEryn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale to the Rescue (Good Omens), Blood and Violence, Chains, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Death Threats, Did I mention Aziraphale does end up rescuing him?, Dungeon, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Sexual Violence, Shapeshifting, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofEryn/pseuds/BardofEryn
Summary: There's a reason Crowley hates the 14th Century, and that reason starts in a dungeon.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 129





	The Fourteenth Century

**Author's Note:**

> After reading Blood Meridian for a class, I had to do something with all the negative Cormac McCarthy energy so here this is.
> 
> Warning: This comes from a really, really dark place, but it does have a happy-ish ending.

Crowley was chained to a wall with his wrists lifted high above his head as if he were trying to call up to Heaven. He’d been stripped, a terrifying ordeal in the best of medieval dungeons - made worse by the fact that he had taken on the form of a woman. He would have shifted back, but then that would have proven, in its not at all accurate way, the whole “sorceress” thing they were trying to pin on him. Besides, he saw what they did to men down here.

He would have performed a demonic miracle and gone out into the woods to lick his wounds, but the priest had blessed the chains. His mind flicked, as it had so many times in this dungeon, to what kind of priest would bless chains. He suspected the man was very self-important and had a taste for blood. Probably had a full collection of tokens from pilgrimages that he showed everyone. Loser.

He closed his eyes as he heard the squeal of the rusty door opening.

 _Remember_ , he reminded himself, _you’re a terrified English girl in a dungeon. None of this is familiar. You do not insult the torturer or tell him he’s not doing his job right. They have_ holy water _up there. Keep it together._

He could feel the waves of lust coming off the man as he approached. That and the iron tang of dried blood. “So, this be the flame-haired sorceress,” said the man, gesturing with a large, gloved hand at Crowley. “Tell me, wench. Why hast thou not freed thyself?”

“Because I am not a sorceress,” said he, his voice high and wispy. He wished he could look at the man, but they had taken his veil when they had stripped him. His eyelids and the darkness were the only things that kept his golden, snake eyes from his torturers and he could feel the heat of a torch.

“Thou art helpless then?”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “I am a maid,” said he, avoiding the question.

He winced as a heavy leather glove made swift, brutal contact with his cheek. “T’was not the question, wench. I ask thee if thou can’st bewitch me.”

“Nay,” he heard himself say.

“Cans’t thou get out of thy bonds?”

He braced himself for another smack. He wasn’t going to give up more than he had to.

This time, the man grabbed him by the jaw and shoved the torch close to his face. It took all his willpower to not open his eyes.

“Cans’t thou get out of thy bonds?” said he again, inching the fire closer to Crowley’s face.

“Nay,” said he as the flames licked his skin. He was sweating, thinking of the awful, gooey death that awaited him if they figured out he didn’t burn. “I tell you truly.”

He pitched forward with a gasp when the man let go of his jaw and removed the torch. He could hear the clinking sound of metal as the torch was fitted into one of the sconces in the dungeon.

Course hands slid along his ribcage.

He froze.

The hands stopped just below his breasts, irritating the sensitive skin there. “If thou cans’t not,” whispered the man in his ear, “then thou cans’t not stop me from taking thy maidenhead. If a sorceress has such a thing.”

He trembled involuntarily. Even demons hadn’t worked out sexual assault yet. They still thought Sodom and Gomorrah was a gay thing (and he wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten them). He clenched his thighs together, but otherwise did not respond.

“Nay,” said the man with mock tenderness. “We shall have none of that.” He levered his knee between Crowley’s legs, forcing them apart. “Unless thou cans’t stop me.”

Tears began to well in his eyes. In any other circumstance, he would have turned the man into a puddle of goo or set him on fire or driven him completely mad. But any of that would bring an exorcist and holy water down upon him. He couldn’t risk it. “Please,” said he, hating himself for begging, “I cannot stop you. I am but a maid.”

“Not for long,” said he darkly. The knee was removed for an instant as the course, scratchy sound of woolen hose being stripped off in a hurry filled his ears. His belt clanged to the floor. Seconds later, the man’s knee forced open Crowley’s legs again - only this time it was skin on skin. 

“Please,” squeaked he again, and this time he didn’t have to play at being frightened. “Pleasssse don’t.” He could feel the slick, wet head touch his utterly unprepared hole. “Pleassse.”

“Make me,” whispered he, grabbing handfuls of Crowley’s breasts. He grabbed onto them like he was trying to burst them. At the same time, he thrust into him in one quick, hard shove.

He bit his lip so hard he drew blood in an effort not to scream. That’s what this man wanted from him. And now the man was picking up a relentless pace. Crowley could feel his insides stretch and tear as the man violated him. It needed to stop. It had to stop. 

He panicked. He snapped his fingers.

The man screamed. “My eyes!” howled he, pulling out of him with a sickening suction sound. “What hast thou done to my eyes?”

He opened his and saw the man scrabbling with his fingers at the place where his eyes had been. “Only giving you what you desssserve,” hissed he. If he was going to die for being a sorceress, he could at least go out with some good lines under his belt.

“Foul sorceress!” spat he. “Help! Somebody help!” He bellowed at the ceiling, looking up with eyeless sockets. “The sorceress has taken my sight.”

“Oh, pipe down,” snarled he. “You’re lucky. I didn’t take away your...”

Time slowed to a halt.

“That’s quite enough, dear boy.”

“Aziraphale?” He looked about in the gloom. “Where the Heaven are you?”

“Oh. Terribly sorry.” He appeared five feet to his left, in a pure white tunic as usual. He smiled sheepishly at him. “Forgot to take the invisibility off.”

He crossed his legs. “Sssshut up and get me out of thesssse chainsss.”

“You can’t do that yourself?”

“No! Y’think I’d be chained here if I didn’t have to be? Some bugger blessssed them.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Who would bless chains?”

He balled his fists. “Would you jussst get me out already?”

“Oh, yes, right.” He snapped his fingers and Crowley fell to the floor like a ragdoll.

His head hit the stone floor, sending a blinding pain through his skull. He hissed. “Little warning next time?” he sniped.

“Sorry.” He walked over to where Crowley lay and reached out a soft, plump hand. “Here, let me help --”

He flinched away from his hand. “I’ve got it.” He miracled himself a new dress and propped himself up. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Aziraphale nodded and snapped his fingers.

A moment later, they were sitting by the Isis River in Oxfordshire. The sweet smell of honeysuckle and fresh grass mingled with the slightly murky scent of the water. He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh smells. The river in front of them was green as glass and just about as still. He took one look at the cool, fresh water and dived in.

“Dear boy, your...”

The dress he had been wearing appeared next to Aziraphale on the bank.

The angel sat back on his elbows with a huff. “Must you? Right now?”

His head resurfaced from the water, his long, red hair twirling in the water like ribbons. “If you think I’m not taking a bath after being in that dungeon for two weeks,” he spat, “you’re... you’re...!”

“An idiot?” he suggested helpfully.

“A _loon_ ,” he said before diving under the water again. Since he didn’t need to breathe, he stayed under the water, violently scrubbing at every part of himself. He paid special attention to where the guard had touched him, miracling some soap from Persia into his hand. He’d put it down as polluting a water source when he had to fill out the paperwork. By the time he emerged from the water again, his ribs were red and raw, but he felt a little better.

Despite his gentleman’s demeanor, Aziraphale had never been particularly squeamish about nudity. So when Crowley plopped down next to him, completely naked, he just said: “You’re not cold?”

“Nah,” he said. He crossed his arms under his head. “Need to air out after being in there for so long.” 

He nodded. “What I don’t understand,” he began, focusing on the river again, “is why you didn’t perform a demonic miracle.”

Crowley picked at the grass. “I think the blind man we left back there can tell you that I absolutely did,” he said. 

Aziraphale sighed deeply. “You know what I mean. Why didn’t you just miracle yourself away?”

“Told you. Blessed chains,” he said. He twirled a dandelion in front of his face. “Can’t exactly get out of those without help.”

“Glad I came when I did then,” he said.

He froze. “Yeah... Ungh, speaking of,” he began, “when exactly did you come in?”

“I heard that man screaming something about a sorceress taking his eyes and put two and two together,” he said. He smiled. “Admittedly, the ‘sorceress’ part threw me for a second. It’s been awhile since you took this form.”

 _It’ll be awhile too_ , he thought. He morphed back into a man-shape. “Better?” he asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I don’t care overly much. Besides, why on Earth would you care what I think?”

“Dunno,” he said. _Because you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend_? “Just didn’t want to hurt your preciousssss sensibilitiessss.”

“Well, they’re not,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably. “Speaking of hurt, are you feeling any better?”

“Haven’t caught the Black Death yet.”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were only there when the guard started screaming.”

“I was,” he said. “However, it didn’t take much to notice the blood on your leg. Did that man cut you there?”

Crowley crossed his legs reflexively. “Ngk, no. It’s... Long story, angel.”

“Ah.” He looked down at his hands. “So it did have to do with him being half-naked.”

Crowley sat up on one elbow, openly gaping at the angel. “How the Heaven?”

“I was at Sodom and Gomorrah. I was the one who led the family out while Sandalphon was busy blinding people and turning them into salt.” He shuddered. “Horrible business. The girls wouldn’t speak for weeks.”

“When you say you were _at_...?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he snipped. He turned his head away, his blond curls bouncing in the breeze.

Crowley grunted and flopped onto his back again. “Did your side have an extraction plan?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Just Sandalphon.” He turned towards Crowley a bit. “Did yours?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Not really their area. Just sent me to stir up some trouble.” He plucked a bright yellow petal from the dandelion and watched it flutter down into the grass. “Didn’t care how I came back.”

The wind whistled through the grass around them like a sigh. The two, supernatural beings watched the river flow in front of them, long and lazy in its journey.

“What year is it?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “1350. Why?”

“Dunno. Jus’ hope things go better next century.”

He nodded. “So much death.” He frowned at a thistle in front of him. “Well, I suppose I should be on my way. Several blessings to do and a quite a few more healings.”

“Mind if I tag along?” In answer to Aziraphale’s startled expression, he added, “I’m sure there’s some temptings to do around a plague camp. Give a few people their last hurrah.”

Aziraphale stood up and brushed bits of grass and dirt off his pure white tunic. “Fine,” he said in his patented disgruntled, yet secretly pleased to have the company voice. “There’s just one last thing. Stand up, will you?”

Crowley stood up.

“This may hurt a tad.”

“What may--?” He bit his lip as Aziraphale placed a hand on his stomach and concentrated. Something burned like a hot iron in his guts, then faded away. 

“Teeth away from your lip.”

He obeyed hesitantly.

Aziraphale brushed a finger along his lip, healing the deep bite mark Crowley had made there. “Bleeding around plague camps is a bad idea,” he said as if that explained everything.

Crowley reached for his mouth, which still burned a bit from the angel’s healing. “Yeah. Erm... Should I -?”

“Best not.” He began walking off through the field towards the city. “And put some clothes on!” he called over his shoulder. “We don’t want anyone else thinking you’re a blasted witch!”

**Author's Note:**

> For people unfamiliar with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, the short version is that two angels (disguised) came to visit the city of Sodom to see if it should be destroyed. Lot convinced them to stay at his place. Before anyone could go to bed, all the city’s men surrounded Lot’s house and demanded that Lot turn over his guests (the angels) to them so that they could rape them. Lot tried to give the crowd his two virgin daughters instead, but the crowd refused and tried to break his door in. At this point, the angels got their shit together and struck everyone blind so Lot and his family could escape. I’d like to imagine Sandalphon was the one doing the blinding and Aziraphale was the one leading Lot’s family away, probably complete with apologies to the two shocked daughters.


End file.
